


Everything Is Alright

by toyhto



Series: Everything Is Alright [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: About love confessions and such, Alfie's not jealous, But he needs Tommy to try not to get killed, M/M, Post-Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23268433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: He might’ve told Tommy that he loves the idiot, but he doesn’t want Tommy to see it on his goddamn face.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Everything Is Alright [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668835
Comments: 16
Kudos: 176





	Everything Is Alright

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to [Men Who Walk With Other Men](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23131906/chapters/55353700). There MIGHT be one more piece to this series but I'm not sure yet! Come say hi on my [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)!

Tommy Shelby. A ridiculous fucking man in a ridiculous fucking suit. With a pretty face, sure, with pretty _everything_ , but that’s a shame, because the man is a fucking idiot, right? Or possibly just mad, but what difference does it make, really? It doesn’t change the fact that apparently Alfie’s fucking fallen in love with the idiot.  
  
He walks straight to the idiot’s office. An assistant or something tries to stop him. He glares at the kid and says that he’s goddamn _Alfie Solomons_ , and the kid looks both very confused and very scared. Good. He’s still got it. He doesn’t bother to knock, only pushes the door open and walks to Tommy, who’s sitting behind a ridiculously big desk with stupid papers all over it.  
  
“What?” Tommy says and stands up, looking so confused you’d almost think he didn’t remember who Alfie is. But he does. He fucking does. Alfie knows, because it’s been barely three weeks since he had his cock in the bastard’s ass and there’s just no way Tommy’s forgotten _that._ “Alfie –“  
  
“Yeah,” he says, sits in a chair and leans his cane against the edge of the desk. So, this is Tommy’s office. This is the place where Tommy does all his politician bullshit with other fucking politicians. “Glad to see you remember my name.”  
  
“What –,” Tommy begins, then drops the rest of it. Yeah, maybe the bastard isn’t _completely_ mad yet. Then he seems to think about something, rushes past Alfie to the door and closes it. He stands there for a moment, by the closed door, goes through his pockets until finally appears to locate his fucking cigarette. Alfie just stares. He can damn well stare at the bastard, right, since they are… they are something. Surely they’re something. “Alfie,” Tommy says, lighting a cigarette and turning to him. The bastard looks tired. Clearly, he’s not been sleeping, but it also seems that he mightn’t have been eating. “Alfie, what the fuck are you doing here?”  
  
“What do you think?” Alfie asks, because the truth is that _he_ doesn’t fucking know what he’s doing here.  
  
It’s too bad Tommy seems to be able to ignore the impulse to tell him. Instead, Tommy walks back to his desk holding the cigarette, then seems to remember that Alfie’s _right here_ and puts the cigarette out. It’s almost touching, really, it is. Alfie can’t fucking deny that, can he? It’s touching that Tommy seems to realise Alfie’s lungs don’t do well with tobacco smoke, even though they’ve never discussed it.  
  
“You can’t be fucking serious,” Alfie says, because it’s starting to seem like Tommy’s not going to talk. Well, it’s better to get straight to the point anyway, right? “You should’ve got the fuck out when you screwed up the plan.”  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says, licking his lips, which is just fucking _unfair,_ because now Alfie’s watching the bastard’s lips and can’t focus _at all._ He’s not seen Tommy in two weeks. The last time he saw Tommy was a day before Tommy was supposed to get Oswald Mosley shot. A fucking farce, that was. And Alfie barely slept the night before, and then he spent the next evening calling everyone he still knows to find out what the hell had happened in Birmingham. It was almost midnight until he was fairly certain Tommy was alive and not missing, well, a head or something. But unfortunately, so was Oswald Mosley.  
  
And now Tommy’s fucking going around the country with Mosley, standing a few feet away when Mosley talks his bullshit to the cheering audiences.  
  
“I heard him on the radio,” Alfie says, “last night, when you were with him in Manchester.”  
  
Tommy grimaces, as if Manchester is the worst part.  
  
“I don’t like his fucking voice.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tommy says, taking a deep breath. “Alfie, you can’t just come here like that.”  
  
“Then what should’ve I done instead, call you?”  
  
Tommy stares at him.  
  
“Goddamn, Tommy. I should’ve called your secretary and made an appointment, is that what you’re saying?”  
  
“No,” Tommy says, and Alfie fucking _refuses_ to show the bastard how relieved he is. “No, you could call me at home and say that you want to see me. And what the hell are you doing in London?”  
  
“What the hell are you doing with Mosley?”  
  
“You know exactly what I’m doing,” Tommy says in a blank voice, “I’m helping him with his party. Alfie, we can talk about this later.” And then he stares at Alfie in a look that clearly says _we can’t talk about this now._ Which kind of makes sense. Surely someone’s at least trying to listen to them. Alfie should probably have thought about that before. But he’s been sitting in his house in Margate for two weeks, thinking about Tommy’s ruined plan and wondering what the hell the fucker is going to do next and… and he’s been missing Tommy. He’s been missing Tommy like hell, and isn’t that just great? Yeah, he’s ruined.  
  
“Okay,” he says, stands up and turns to leave.  
  
“When?” Tommy asks, before he reaches the door. “Where?”  
  
“I’ll have my secretary call your secretary,” he tells Tommy and leaves without looking back. If he looks back, he’s going to go to Tommy, and he’s going to kiss Tommy on the mouth, and isn’t that a splendid idea, really, to kiss Tommy in the House of Parliament? Yeah, it’s better that he walks straight out of the building, to the street where the driver is still waiting for him. And besides, Tommy might’ve pushed him away.  
  
  
**  
  
  
What he meant when he said his secretary was going to call Tommy’s secretary was of course that he would call Tommy’s secretary himself. He’s in his house in London with Rachel, who’s wandering around in the empty rooms, looking disappointed. She’s probably thinking about all the dust. He listens to her steps on the wooden floors and then argues with Tommy’s secretary about whether Tommy can make time for him tonight or not. Finally, the secretary asks Tommy, and Tommy picks up the phone, calls him a fucking bastard but nicely, and he tells Tommy to come to see him in his house.  
  
He’s a little surprised that Tommy actually comes.  
  
It’s midnight already. He and Rachel have finally managed to make kitchen almost bearable, even though he keeps coughing because of all the dust and Rachel clearly wants to tell him he’s an idiot for coming here when they have a perfectly fine place in Margate. He promises her that he’s going to hire someone to clean this whole place tomorrow, and that Rachel will love London once she gets used to it, or at least she won’t hate it so much, and that’s when Tommy knocks on the door.  
  
“Fancy seeing you here,” he says and lets Tommy in.  
  
“Shouldn’t you be hiding?” Tommy asks, shrugging off his coat and then holding it against his chest, probably because the coat rack is covered in dust and what looks a little like mould.  
  
“I _am_ hiding. This house has been empty for years.”  
  
“It’s your house.”  
  
“Yeah, a dead man’s house. Come to the kitchen, Tommy. Did you eat already?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Alfie bites his lip. He’s not fucking _jealous._ That’s not what this is. “With Mosley?”  
  
“Yeah,” Tommy says in a voice that suggest he definitely knows Alfie’s jealous.  
  
“I’m not jealous,” Alfie tells him.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“I just can’t bear the thought that you’re spending time with that man.”  
  
Tommy almost smiles at him.  
  
“Anyway, do you want tea? Because we have that. And sandwiches. Nothing else, but you won’t need anything, since you’ve already eaten. With Oswald Mosley. Is he nice? Because he doesn’t sound nice. He sounds -”  
  
“Hi, Rachel,” Tommy says, when they pass the living room, where she’s reading a book in an armchair covered with Alfie’s coat. “How are you?”  
  
“Tell him we should get back home,” she says, the traitor. “This place is a fucking mess. And the air stinks.”  
  
“Yeah, I agree,” Tommy says.  
  
“He only came here because he’s missing you,” Rachel says, sounding disapproving.  
  
Tommy glances at Alfie.  
  
“Yeah, thank you for your input, Rachel,” Alfie says, grabbing Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy lets himself be pushed down the hallway and to the kitchen, which is a nice surprise and makes Alfie wonder if perhaps Tommy is in the mood to be pushed around a little more, maybe without his clothes, in bed. He just wishes there’s not too much dust in the bedroom.  
  
“You didn’t have to come,” Tommy says, when they’re sitting at the kitchen table and Alfie’s given him a cup of tea. There’s no dust in the _tea._ It’s the cup that smells of it. Tommy doesn’t seem worried, though. Not about the dust, at least. “I would’ve come to you.”  
  
“I’m sure.”  
  
“I would have. I’ve kept coming back to you for fucking years now, Alfie.”  
  
“Yeah, I know, I was there,” Alfie says and takes a deep breath. “What happened?”  
  
Tommy looks him in the eyes for a few seconds and then sighs. It’s somehow goddamn unnerving that the bastard doesn’t even try to avoid the question. “They found out.”  
  
“They? Mosley? Why then –“  
  
“No,” Tommy says, “no, I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out, Alfie. I _will_ figure it out. I just need –“  
  
“You need to get the fuck out of here. So, your sniper didn’t –“  
  
“Someone shot him.”  
  
“ _Shit._ ”  
  
“And Aberama Gold was stabbed.”  
  
“Yeah, I heard about that.”  
  
Tommy glances at him.  
  
“You look like shit, Tommy. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”  
  
“I haven’t,” Tommy says.  
  
“Why didn’t you fucking call me?”  
  
“For what?”  
  
Alfie clears his throat. “For conversation.”  
  
Tommy stares at him. He wants to take it back. He wants to tell the bastard that he only came here for the city, yeah, he came to enjoy the clubs and the fucking view, and maybe to visit a few old friends, nothing to do with Tommy, nothing at all. But Tommy already knows better. They both know better, so he keeps his chin up and lets Tommy look him in the eyes, clearly calculating what to say.  
  
“Sorry,” Tommy says.  
  
Alfie swallows. “What?”  
  
“I could’ve called you,” Tommy says. “It wasn’t like I didn’t think you’d pick up.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. Sorry.”  
  
 _Shit._ There’s something stuck in Alfie’s throat and he’s pretty sure that this time it isn’t the goddamn cancer. “Alright.”  
  
Tommy looks relieved, the absolute fucking bastard. “Alright?”  
  
“Yeah. I know there’s been a lot in your mind. You probably just forgot how to use the phone.”  
  
Tommy licks his lips. “Yeah.”  
  
“Next time,” Alfie says, “ask your maid. Ask your wife. Ask anyone. And call me. Because I could figure out your plan had fucking blown up, and I could figure out that you weren’t missing a head or anything, but I kind of needed a little more. I needed a little more, Tommy.”  
  
“I get it,” Tommy says. Alfie just wishes Tommy would stop staring at him in the face, because he’s getting emotional here, right, and he doesn’t fucking want Tommy to see it, does he? No, he doesn’t. He might’ve told Tommy that he loves the idiot, but he doesn’t want Tommy to _see_ it on his goddamn face.  
  
“I needed you to tell me you were alright,” he says anyway, because what the hell. He’s pretty much blown every cover he ever had, when it comes to Tommy Shelby. “With your own voice. I needed you tell me, _Alfie, stop being a fucking idiot, I’m alright._ ”  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says in a gentle voice, “stop being a fucking idiot. I’m alright.”  
  
He stares at the bastard. “No, you aren’t.”  
  
Tommy doesn’t answer, only drinks his tea.  
  
  
**  
  
  
The bed could be dustier. There’re sheets in the cupboard that don’t smell of four years’ worth of an empty house. Alfie puts them in the bed and then undresses, Tommy’s eyes on his back.  
  
He can’t understand what the idiot is looking at. It’s funny, really, how sometimes he gets this mad urge to grab Tommy’s shoulders, shake the man and demand answers. Tommy fucking told him he wasn’t interested, he told Alfie he wasn’t like that, and that Alfie could have his fantasies but there was no way Tommy would do anything with him besides sitting in his chair and drinking his tea. And then he did every fucking thing he had said he wasn’t going to do. He even told his _wife,_ which is just crazy, and Alfie didn’t ask him to do that, definitely not. It’s not actually a surprise that Alfie seems to be the sane one but there’s something unnerving about it, anyway.  
  
But most of the time, it’s alright. Most of the time, Alfie can fucking accept that there’re things in life that don’t make sense. And the thing that doesn’t make sense in his life is that Tommy Shelby apparently wants to get fucked by him in a regular basis.  
  
He leaves his underpants on, and his socks, because well, the floor is cold. Then he walks to Tommy, holds the bastard’s face in between his hands and gives him plenty of time to protest, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even pull his face away from Alfie’s grip, so Alfie leans forward and kisses him.  
  
“You were worried,” Tommy says against his mouth, sounding smug.  
  
“Yeah, damn right I was. I can never trust you to keep yourself alive.”  
  
“Alfie –“  
  
“Shut up,” he says and kisses Tommy again.  
  
“ _Alfie_ ,” Tommy says, his hand fumbling with Alfie’s cock through the fabric. “You really shouldn’t start worrying about me. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”  
  
“Too late,” he says and tries to push his own hand under Tommy’s pants, but it turns out Tommy’s still fully dressed. And why the fuck is that, anyway? But he doesn’t ask, only starts unbuttoning Tommy’s shirt. “I can’t help it. You’re a fucking disaster.”  
  
“I didn’t get killed, though,” Tommy says, sounding smug about that, too. Or maybe he’s smug about the way he manages to get his hand into Alfie’s underpants and wrap his fingers around Alfie’s cock. Alfie wants him naked, but his own fingers are getting clumsy. Tommy’s grip is pretty determined today.  
  
“Wait a second,” he tells Tommy. “We aren’t in the bed yet.”  
  
“I fucking stood on the stage,” Tommy says, his hand speeding up on Alfie’s cock, “and something went wrong, I didn’t know what, and I couldn’t do anything, I was fucking standing there when they shot my sniper and stabbed Aberama, and then I followed Mosley out of the building. And I thought he was going to shoot me in the face or something. Or he wouldn’t have done it himself. He would’ve made someone do it. But he patted me on the shoulder and wanted to have a drink with me and talk to me and I couldn’t think, I couldn’t think about anything, it was like I was under water, and I couldn’t hear Oswald but I could hear Grace.”  
  
“Don’t call him Oswald,” Alfie says. “Tommy, I have to sit down.” He’s not going to fucking fall onto his nose when Tommy Shelby’s jerking him off, and his knees are trembling now. Tommy doesn’t let go of his cock but doesn’t complain, does he, when Alfie walks backwards to the bed and sits down on the edge of the mattress. It’s funny, it really is, Tommy Shelby following Alfie with his fingers wrapped around Alfie’s cock, biting his lip, as if the only thing in his mind is how to get Alfie off as efficiently as possible. It’s funny, and Alfie would laugh if he had any breath left in him. “Tommy –“  
  
“You can come,” Tommy says, hovering over him, “you can come, Alfie, just fucking do it, I know you want to. You can deal with me later. We have time.” Only the way he says it, he makes it sound like they don’t. Alfie grabs his elbow but Tommy’s hand speeds up, and they _don’t_ have time because Tommy’s going to fuck up, isn’t he, he’s going to do something so irreparably stupid that it’s going to get him killed or worse, and Alfie can’t deal with that, he can’t, he can’t -  
  
He comes in Tommy’s hand with a moan he’s not especially proud of but who fucking cares. Tommy pulls his hand away, and Alfie blinks and blinks and watches as Tommy starts taking off his own clothes fucking _finally_. Tommy’s so pretty, always has been. Such a pretty man. Men like that never cared much of Alfie, not even before Tommy fucking shot him in the face and ruined whatever was left of his good looks. Surely it’s pathetic that now that he thinks about it, it seems almost sweet somehow, Tommy and he alone on the beach. Like a date. With guns. And Tommy missed, didn’t he?  
  
Alfie’s never been exactly certain if Tommy missed on purpose or not, and he’s not going to fucking ask. He’s not complaining, right? No, he’s sitting on his bed watching Tommy strip off his clothes. Pretty men never liked him, unless they wanted something specific from him, like, in some occasions, a subtle threat of pain. Because they always thought he was good for that. But Tommy doesn’t seem to have a fucking glue what he wants of Alfie, and it makes it better somehow. Tommy keeps coming back to him, and it’s not because of his looks, and not because of his cock, because Tommy could find someone with more stamina and two good knees anywhere. Maybe it’s for the tea. But he’ll take that.  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says in a hoarse voice, “you’re looking at me like it again.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
Tommy snorts.  
  
“ _Like what?_ ” Alfie says. He just came and he doesn’t have bloody patience, alright? And Tommy’s almost naked now, his fingers playing with the waistband of his underpants. Alfie can’t look anywhere else. The fucker’s doing it on purpose, of course.  
  
“Like that,” Tommy says, pulling his underpants to his knees and then kicking them off.  
  
“Yeah, right,” Alfie says. He can’t fucking argue. He’s staring at Tommy’s cock. Not that there’s anything special about it, because there _isn’t._ It’s just a cock. But it’s attached to _Tommy_ fucking _Shelby._ “Come here.”  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says and walks to him until he’s so close Alfie can put his hands on the back of his thighs. “Alfie, you need to stop thinking about me and Oswald Mosley.”  
  
“I can’t,” Alfie says. “Come closer.”  
  
“You could just jerk me off.”  
  
“My wrist’s been a bit sore,” he says and grabs Tommy’s dick. “And I’m sitting here pretty comfortably. So, I need you to lean closer.”  
  
“I would never let Oswald Mosley do any of this,” Tommy says and does what he’s been told.  
  
“You’d better not to.”  
  
“Any of this,” Tommy says, grabbing Alfie’s shoulders for support, which is good, because Alfie’s going to fucking make the bastard first lose every conscient thought and then his balance. “Never.”  
  
“Alright,” Alfie says and then he’s got to stop talking, because he’s got Tommy’s cock in his mouth now. But Tommy shut ups as well, so Alfie doesn’t have to bite the fucker in the dick or anything. Tommy doesn’t say anything about Oswald Mosley, only holds tighter onto Alfie’s shoulders and slowly loses control, and that’s the best part, because Tommy so clearly tries to cling into it. The poor idiot looks so tough in those fancy suits but can’t help himself from wanting to have his cock in Alfie’s mouth. And those moans, those goddamn moans, yeah, they’re alright.  
  
It’s alright.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“You’ve got to trust me,” Tommy says later, when they in the bed. Properly, this time. On their backs. With the blanket on. And Alfie’s got a clean pair of underpants finally.  
  
He snorts.  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says, sounding almost disapproving.  
  
“Trust you? _Trust you?_ ”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Alfie opens his mouth and then closes the fucking thing, because what can he say? What can he do? “I’m worried.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“If you get yourself killed, I’ll kill you. And it’s going to be bad. I’m going to be very imaginative about it. Much more imaginative than you were trying to do.”  
  
“I know,” Tommy says and then rolls onto his side, facing Alfie. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”  
  
Alfie stares at him.  
  
“Really,” Tommy says with a hint of smile, but the smile disappears, when Alfie presses his thumb against Tommy’s closed lips. “Really,” Tommy says again, and Alfie almost lets his thumb slip into the bastard’s mouth. Almost. Because there’re things he can do and things he can’t, and he likes to think he can tell them apart pretty well, thank you very much. Most of the time, that is. There might’ve been a few temporary lapses of judgement, for example, when he told Tommy he loves the idiot.  
  
There’s got to be consequences. There’re always consequences. But he doesn’t yet know what they are. Maybe having Tommy half-naked in his bed is the consequence. Or maybe having to let Tommy repeat Mosley’s bullshit is the consequence.  
  
Maybe having to trust Tommy is the fucking consequence.  
  
“I’m going to ask you something.”  
  
“What?” Tommy says, pushing his shoulders back. The idiot thinks Alfie’s going to ask him about Mosley, or about the plan.  
  
“Can you kiss me?”  
  
Tommy stares at him for a few seconds. “Yeah.”  
  
“Yeah, alright,” Alfie says slowly, “but are you going to?”  
  
Tommy’s blinking rapidly, eyes fixed on him. Fuck, he loves the bastard. “Do you want me to?”  
  
“What if I fucking do? What then?”  
  
“I can kiss you,” Tommy says and leans closer. His breath smells of tobacco and garlic. It’s disgusting. Alfie places his palm on the side of his face.  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Good,” Tommy says. It sounds like a question.  
  
“Good, because I want you to kiss me now.”  
  
“You’re a goddamn fool, Alfie Solomons,” Tommy says, and that’s probably the closest thing to a love confession Alfie’s ever going to get from him, so, yeah, there’s an ache in him he wouldn’t rather talk about, but otherwise, everything’s alright. Tommy’s agreed to kiss him. Everything’s alright.  
  
“No reason to deny that,” he says and closes his eyes as Tommy kisses him.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He tells Tommy that he’s going to go back to Margate and wait there like a fucking housewife. He means it, too. For five minutes. But five minutes after Tommy’s gone, Alfie tells Rachel to find someone to clean the house, and Rachel stares at him until he says he can do it himself. He knows people in London, after all. Rachel doesn’t know anyone. So, he finds the cleaner and shows her the house as Rachel sits in the drawing room, reading a book. He didn’t plan to get back to London, no, he was perfectly happy in his nice little house by the sea, but the things are what they are. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Tommy, not exactly.  
  
But he doesn’t trust Tommy.  
  
And it’s not his fault, is it? There’s no fucking reason for him to trust Tommy. He would let Tommy have a knife on his throat, alright, but he can’t trust Tommy not to get himself in a lethal sort of the mess, because frankly, that’s what Tommy does the best.  
  
So, he sends Rachel to buy them food and other supplies that they’re going to need if they stay in London. He doesn’t know what those supplies but surely Rachel does. Then he sits in his old armchair for a while. He didn’t mean to fucking come here. But he’s not very surprised that when he does idiotic things, he does them for Tommy Shelby.  
  
It's very easy to find what Tommy does in the evening. All he needs to do is chat with Tommy’s secretary a little on the phone, and then he takes his coat and his cane and asks the driver to take him to a very nice restaurant, in which he finds Tommy sitting in the corner table with Oswald Mosley. He walks right past them, letting his cane tap against the floor with every step. Then he sits at the closest free table, crosses his legs and smiles at Tommy, who’s staring at him with wide eyes.  
  
“Who’s that?” Mosley asks, leaning closer to Tommy.  
  
Alfie hopes Tommy would stab the bastard in the face with his knife, but for some reason Tommy doesn’t. Alfie can’t even hear what Tommy says next, which is disappointing, because he used to have an excellent hearing. Before the war, that was. And before Tommy shot him in the face. He tilts his head to the side and watches as Tommy’s clearly trying to make Mosley think Alfie’s no one. God, he loves that man.  
  
The waiter comes and goes. He gets his food. Tommy and Mosley are talking, quietly enough that Alfie can’t hear them, and sometimes Mosley leans to Tommy and Tommy doesn’t do anything about it. It’s maddening. It’s got to be unhealthy to look at, but Alfie can’t tear his eyes away. Then finally, _finally,_ Tommy gets out of the table, nods at Mosley and walks to the door holding his cigarette box. Alfie waits for maybe three seconds. He doesn’t want to be obvious. Then he stands up and leaves the table. He does his best not to look like he wants to kill Mosley as he passes the man. Really.  
  
He finds Tommy outside, smoking a cigarette in a drizzle.  
  
“What the hell?” Tommy asks, not turning to look at Alfie. He looks lovely when he’s angry.  
  
“So, I stayed in London,” Alfie says.  
  
“You can’t do that, Alfie.”  
  
“The last time I checked, you don’t own the whole city.” He turns to Tommy. “Do you?”  
  
Tommy glares at him, which is obviously a victory.  
  
“I’m jealous,” he says.  
  
Tommy sighs. “Fucking –“  
  
“I know I’m an idiot. But I’m jealous. And I’m worried.”  
  
“Shit,” Tommy says, shaking his head just a little. His hair is getting wet with rain. Alfie’s face is wet, too. They’re fucking idiots for standing out on the street like this. When they go back inside, Mosley will think that Tommy’s lost his mind and then he’s not going to want to keep Tommy around anymore, and that’s just great, because then Alfie will know Tommy’s got one bastard less in his life. “Listen, Alfie,” Tommy says, “I’m not very good… I don’t want anyone to worry about me.”  
  
Alfie opens his mouth.  
  
“Anyone I care about.”  
  
Oh, fucking hell. He closes his mouth. Too bad that they’re on the street and he can’t kiss Tommy.  
  
“But I’m not good with that,” Tommy says. He sounds a little frustrated. “I’ll try. Alright?”  
  
“You’ll try what.”  
  
“I’ll try not to get killed.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
Tommy nods, then turns to him. “Now, fuck off. Mosley’s going to ask me questions about you. It’s probably better that I get to it.”  
  
“Are you going to blush?”  
  
“Yeah,” Tommy says and puts out the cigarette. “Later?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Are you going to be home?”  
  
“Yeah,” Alfie says. “Why?”  
  
“No reason,” Tommy says, turns his back to him and walks straight back to the restaurant.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Two hours later, there’s a knock on the door. Rachel’s busy, so Alfie goes to the door himself and besides, if there’s someone who remembers him from his earlier days, he certainly doesn’t want it to be Rachel who gets shot. But it’s not one of his old nemeses, it’s just Tommy Shelby, wet with rain and a little flushed.  
  
“Did you walk here or something?” he asks, hiding the gun and stepping away from the door.  
  
“Fuck off,” Tommy says and walks in, only when Alfie closes the door, Tommy’s right there, standing barely one foot away. He can smell the tobacco and the whiskey and if he imagines a little, he thinks he can smell Mosley’s fucking cologne. Tommy doesn’t wear cologne, and when he does, he always puts on too much. It’s goddamn adorable.   
  
“So, did you blush?” he asks. “When Mosley asked you who I was?”  
  
“Yeah,” Tommy says.  
  
“And what did you tell him?” Alfie asks, stepping closer to the bastard until he can’t get any closer. He puts his hands on Tommy’s hips and keeps them there.  
  
“I told him that I let you fuck me,” Tommy says. “He wasn’t pleased.”  
  
“He wasn’t?” Alfie says. He sounds a little breathless but what the hell he can do about that, really? He's not going to let go of Tommy.  
  
“No,” Tommy says and then suddenly there’s something serious in his already perfectly serious stare. “I told him we were in business together.”  
  
“He didn’t know me, did he?”  
  
“No. I suppose you want to stay dead.”  
  
“It seems simpler that way,” Alfie says and places his hand on the low of Tommy’s back, pulling him closer. Tommy comes easily. _Fucking hell._ “And it’s not like you need me to come to the dinner parties with you. You already got a wife for that.”  
  
“True,” Tommy says. “I suppose Lizzie wouldn’t mind if you let her slip out of a few of those occasions, though. Replace her for some dull event.”  
  
“I don’t think you know how to be dull.”  
  
“Don’t flirt with me,” Tommy says in a flirting tone. Alfie tugs the hem of his shirt from his trousers and pushes his hand in between the fabric and Tommy’s warm skin. It used to drive him crazy, before, when he couldn’t figure out what Tommy wanted of him. Sometimes Tommy came to his house in Margate with a look on his face that seemed to suggest he wanted Alfie to fuck him or something, or maybe kiss him, or stroke his hair. Then he asked stupid questions about Alfie’s preferences and told Alfie multiple times that he wasn’t interested. And that was just stupid, because Alfie had always known he wasn’t interested, only at that point, he started suspecting that maybe Tommy was, indeed, interested but didn’t know it yet himself.  
  
What awful times. What a burden. At some nights, he couldn’t sleep because he couldn’t stop wondering what Tommy Shelby wanted of him. But it probably kept him alive, too, when he grew tired of his books and when Rachel grew tired of him and stopped listening to his nonsense.  
  
“Where’s Rachel?” Tommy asks now.  
  
“I don’t know. In the drawing room.”  
  
“She can hear what we’re talking.”  
  
“I doubt she gives a fuck.”  
  
“I didn’t tell Mosley anything,” Tommy says, then puts his hand on the back of Alfie’s neck. “Obviously. But I don’t know what I would’ve told him, if I had wanted to.”  
  
Alfie licks his lips. They taste of tea. Tommy will probably taste of whiskey, fucking awful. “That we’re old friends.”  
  
“No,” Tommy says slowly, his fingers growing bold on Alfie’s neck. He fucking knows he could do anything to Alfie and Alfie would let him.  
  
“Well,” Alfie says and sighs. It’s partly genuine and partly for the show. But he supposes everything’s like that. In life. “I suppose I’m your lover.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tommy says with a tiny smile. “A damn good lover.”  
  
“I don’t look like it, though. Which is totally your fault.”  
  
“ _Alfie –_ “  
  
“Yeah, I know, we’re supposed to be over that. But if I have to come with you to the dull events, as your mistress, I suppose, I’m going to be bitter about my face.”  
  
“My mistress,” Tommy says. “Okay.”  
  
“We could just be, I don’t know, we could just be together,” Alfie says, his heart in his throat. Maybe it's the cancer. “I don’t care if I am a lover or a mistress. As long as we are…”  
  
“Yeah,” Tommy says, nodding, “yeah, that makes sense.”  
  
It doesn’t make sense at all. Tommy Shelby has a wife, and from what Alfie’s heard, she’s clever and beautiful and probably knows how to use a gun, too. A good woman, then. And these days, Tommy Shelby has a fucking _name,_ has people who trust him and listen to him, has a fucking office in the House of Parliament, and, of course, a death wish. But maybe some things can’t be fixed. And Tommy promised Alfie he’d try not to get himself killed, didn’t he? He promised.  
  
“You want me to fuck you or what?” Alfie says, leaning closer until he’s kind of talking into Tommy’s throat. Tommy hasn’t shaved today. Good. He didn’t shave for Oswald Mosley, then. “Or blow you? Just tell me. Because I can. My knee has been good.”  
  
“I think,” Tommy says, breathing hard. His cock is half-hard and he’s rubbing it against Alfie’s thigh in a slow motion. “I think I want a bath.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
It's a fucking miracle, yeah, that’s what it is. Alfie should be dead already. Surely he’s been on this fucking planet for long enough, surely he’s caused enough harm. He’s done his best at that, no one can deny it. But here he is, in his own bed, early in the morning, his left knee aching a little and his left eye blind because the most brilliant man he ever met shot him in the face some time ago.  
  
Life is good.  
  
He rolls onto his side and pushes his fingers into Tommy’s hair. Tommy groans at him. It’s lucky that Tommy was already awake, because otherwise he’d sound angrier.  
  
“What the fuck, Alfie?”  
  
“I meant it.”  
  
Alfie can fucking feel in his fucking _fingers_ that Tommy knows what he’s talking about. “You did?”  
  
“Yeah. What I said. I meant it.”  
  
“I thought maybe it was an accident. That you said it. Back then. In your house. In Margate. The day before I was supposed to have Mosley shot.”  
  
“I know when I said it.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“It was an accident,” Alfie says, stroking the bastard’s hair, “I think. But I meant it.”  
  
“Okay. I know.”  
  
Alfie licks his lips. So, Tommy knows that Alfie loves him. Good. “Okay.”  
  
“I should tell Mosley,” Tommy says slowly, his voice hoarse from all the staying up, probably, because Alfie can fucking tell that he’s not slept more than maybe half an hour so far, “I should tell Mosley that I’m a fucking queer. That I met this man and liked him and wanted to, I don’t know, have sex with him, only it took me some time to realise that. And that I kind of fell in love with the man. I think. I’m not very good at things like that.”  
  
“You’re perfect,” Alfie says and bites his lip. “And yeah, you probably shouldn’t tell Mosley that.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Do you mind if I say it again?”  
  
“Not particularly.”  
  
“I love you,” Alfie says, pulls his hand away from Tommy’s hair and pokes him at the cheek. “You should sleep. You’re going to lose your good looks if you keep going like this.”  
  
“I can’t sleep,” Tommy says. “Would you suck me off? It might help.”  
  
“No,” Alfie says, shifting closer to him in the bed, “no, I wouldn’t, thank you for asking. It’s too much trouble and I’m sleeping.”  
  
“What if I keep you awake?”  
  
“You can’t. I’m sleeping.”  
  
“I’m not trying to get myself killed, Alfie.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Alfie says, takes the idiot into his arms and clings onto him, just in case he’s in the mood to kick Alfie in the thigh or somewhere more delicate. Turns out he’s not, because he doesn’t even wriggle in Alfie’s arms. “Don’t worry,” Alfie says. “Everything’s alright.”


End file.
